


Borrowed

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, PWP, Sexual Roleplay, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:14:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25141489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Hank comes home to a Traci.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 24
Kudos: 171





	Borrowed

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s not like Connor’s a new puppy—he doesn’t come over to greet Hank at the door any more than Sumo does, though he does, at least, usually call some form of, _“Welcome home.”_ A few steps into the house, Hank hears the sink running, so at least he knows Connor’s home. The dishwasher’s still down, and Connor often plays the role of a common AX400, even though Hank’s said a dozen times that he doesn’t need a maid. He used to say he didn’t need _any_ android. He was completely wrong. 

He kicks out of his shoes and tosses his jacket in the general direction of the sofa—it flops over the coffee table instead, which is fine. Connor will probably pick it up later, despite Hank’s protests. Then he’ll rub Hank’s shoulders and ask how the case went, and Hank will moan under Connor’s skillful ministrations and spill every little detail, even though Connor’s _technically_ off the case. He’s not allowed back at the precinct for a week, because Hank ordered him to throw cold coffee in Reed’s face. It’s sucked not having Connor around the office, but it was totally worth it to see Reed ruined. As far as Hank knows, Connor still hasn’t gotten all the residual stains out of his jacket. 

Hank turns into the kitchen, and Connor’s not wearing his jacket, or his tie, or his shirt. Not even _his pants._ His brown socks are still pulled high up his calves, held up by garters, because he can’t seem to let go of those. Hank wouldn’t have it any other way. The black straps match the tight boxer-briefs cupping Connor’s perfect ass. Captivated, Hank watches both cheeks flex as Connor stretches to set a freshly-washed plate in the drying rack. Both arms divert back into the soapy water, his bare back arching forward with the movement, and the white straps of Hank’s old barbeque apron shift across Connor’s spine. The apron’s tied behind his neck and the small of his back and probably covers a decent chunk of his chest but not a damn thing in the rear. It’s all perfectly sculpted, dyed silicone that looks just like bare human skin. 

Hank doesn’t even care that Connor’s not human anymore. Robot or android or whatever, he’s got the body of a red-blooded, virile young man totally out of Hank’s league, and the sweet disposition of a domestic partner totally fine with Hank anyway. Hank takes a step forward and swallows the sudden rush of saliva in his mouth, breathing out, “Connor.”

Connor doesn’t turn around. He’ll have heard Hank come in, will probably have noticed Hank’s quickened breath, and he automatically returns, “Lieut—” before abruptly cutting himself off and amending, “Sir.” The LED on his temple loops yellow over the slip. Hank instantly understands. 

They talked about this. _Connor_ talked, after plenty of poking and prodding and Hank rubbing slow circles over the back of his hand and promising it was _okay_ to be a little _more_ deviant than they both initially thought him. Connor professed everything as pure curiosity, intellectual pursuits, simple investigative learning—and Hank had snorted and asked to hear all his kinky little fantasies already. Hank never thought an android would make him blush.

Hank didn’t think any of those things would actually happen anyway, since his android’s a respectable, uptight cop-cliché nine times out of ten. This isn’t one of the more extreme scenarios Connor conjured up, but it’s still more than Hank expected. 

It’s enough to slow Hank’s steps but not to stop him. He walks right up behind Connor, so close that his feet slot in-between Connor’s, subtly kicking them out and forcing his legs that much wider. Connor’s breath hitches, even though they both know he doesn’t need to breathe. 

Leaning over Connor’s shoulder, Hank growls in Connor’s ear, “Do you think I brought you home to do my dirty dishes, tin-can?” It has just enough of an edge to play into the game, but he’s still checking if this is a game at all. 

Connor instantly confirms it by quietly answering, “No, Sir.” His hands withdraw from the water, arms falling slack at his side. Hank doesn’t care about the suds dripping onto his floor. 

Even though Hank’s brain is perfectly capable of summoning dozens of scenarios, each more delicious than the last, Hank hisses, “Tell me what I bought you for, then.” Half of it is putting the ball in Connor’s court. The other half is selfishness; now that they’re really on the table, Hank wants to hear every sordid detail of Connor’s worst fantasies.

Connor corrects, “You have only rented me from the club.” Except his tone isn’t the usual blunt objection but an almost timid feint. Hank doesn’t get the point of that stipulation.

He rolls with it anyway. He moves his hand onto Connor’s thigh, slipping under the front of the apron and digging his uneven nails into Connor’s soft flesh. Connor stiffens against him, and Hank presses in close enough to pin Connor to the counter. He growls, “Are you trying to say I don’t _own you_?” He gives a hard, possessive squeeze that has Connor pressing back into him.

Connor mumbles, “No, Sir, I—”

Hank cuts him off with a harsh, “Of course I didn’t buy you straight out—I don’t know if this sweet ass is worth anything.” His other hand grabs Connor’s ass and makes a point of kneading it roughly. “But don’t think for a second that pathetic club wouldn’t sell you to me if I wanted—dolls like you are a dime a dozen.”

Connor swiftly nods, as though eager to show his obedience, his acquiescence, even though he’s _so much more_ than a common model. Not that that part really matters. Hank probably still would’ve fallen for him if he had one of those absolutely-everywhere faces, instead of his adorably original and uniquely handsome one. Grateful that Connor’s _Connor_ , Hank brushes a kiss over the mole on the back of Connor’s neck. 

He knows he’s meant to be crueler than that. He covers up the gesture by letting his hands roam freely. He claws across Connor’s taut chest and grabs between Connor’s legs, latching on to the fully realistic cock covered in such a thin layer of fabric. Hank can feel everything through Connor’s boxers. As he pinches Connor’s left nipple, Connor breathes, “My apologies, Sir. I understand you own me, and I will do everything I can to please you.”

“To please me,” Hank repeats, unable to hold back a chuckle. This is nothing like their _real_ first meeting, where Connor was obstinate and self-assured. He tugs Connor’s nipple thoughtfully and lifts the other hand to the hem of Connor’s briefs. As soon as his fingertips graze the skin below, Connor shudders, as though he’s particularly sensitive there. Hank goes slow, enjoying the prickle of Connor’s synthetic pubic hair and the warmth he’s conjured. It’s not as deep and full as the heat of a _real human body_ , but it’s certainly enough to excite Hank’s own body. He grinds his growing interest against Connor’s ass as he reaches under to envelop Connor’s sac. 

Connor tensely lies, “It’s my primary function, Sir. I’m programmed to obey and pleasure you.”

“ _And pleasure_ ,” Hank muses. He gives Connor’s balls a tug and bucks against Connor hard enough to make the lower cabinet rattle. “It’s getting even better.” He’s tempted to bend Connor right over the sink and get started, but he can’t resist ordering, “So why don’t you tell me how you could pleasure me then, you glorified toaster.”

Peeking over his shoulder, Connor quips, “I could indeed warm your cock,” like he just can’t help himself. A grin stretches across Hank’s face, and an oddly pink flush crosses Connor’s before he looks away again. He clears his throat and sheepishly retries, “That is, I have a number of advanced protocols designed to—”

Hank bucks into Connor again and rumbles, “I said _tell me how you could get me off_ , whore.”

The slur sends a noticeable shiver down Connor’s spine. Hank takes note of that, and of the way his cock twitches against Hank’s hand. Connor shifts his weight onto his other foot and answers more steadily, “I am capable of pleasing you in a number of ways, Sir. For example, if you were to step back, I could lower myself to my knees, open my oral cavity, and take your shaft down my throat. I have a number of techniques designed to bring you maximum pleasure, and if they prove ineffective, I can also disconnect my jaw so that you can use my mouth and throat to your own satisfaction. Alternatively, if you were to release me, I could relocate to your bed, where I could lie on my back and present myself to you. I am an advanced enough model that I am able to stretch and lubricate my channel to your exact specifications, and I am also able to adjust those specification mid-session in order to ensure I am not damaged no matter how forcefully you would like to use me. However, if—”

Hank’s hard as a rock and suddenly realizes he can’t wait all the way to the bedroom. He’s not even sure he can wait for a blow job. He snaps, “What if I don’t want to let you go at all?”

Someone else might not notice the pause that comes before Connor’s answer, but Hank does, because Hank _knows Connor._ He knows just how much this is effecting his horny deviant. Connor provides: “Then you could bend me over your sink, remove my undergarments, and have sex with me right here.”

Hank shoves Connor down to cover the sound of his own groan. Connor submissively bends in two, bracing himself against the metal rim with his legs still straight and his rear jutting up. His face turns, cheek cushioned against the faucet, big brown eyes on display, thickly dilated and half-lidded. His LED’s a bright blue, clearly content with being at Hank’s mercy. Looking straight up at Hank, Connor asks, “Do you want me like this, Sir?”

Hank wants Connor _every_ way. There’s just one thing wrong. The anonymity was fun at the start, but Hank finds himself deciding, “Call me by rank.” At least that’s still not as intimate as Connor screaming his first name, like what usually happens when they devolve into this. 

The corner of Connor’s lips quirk like he wants to smile, but he’s holding himself back. He coyly asks, “And you’re a policeman, Sir? Are you a detective?”

Hank rolls his eyes. He forgot that not every run-of-the-mill model has Connor’s scanning technology. “Lieutenant.”

Connor’s eyes light up like he’s impressed. Maybe he really is. He murmurs reverently, “ _Lieutenant._ ” The sound just rolls off his tongue. It’s _ridiculous_ how hot he is. 

Hank can’t resist. He finds himself shoving Connor’s boxer-briefs down his thighs by pure muscle-memory. Then Hank’s hands are roaming Connor’s ass, playing with both cheeks, spreading them open, digging into them, just to see Connor’s lashes flutter and hear a raunchy moan tumble out of his throat. Apparently, deviants are just as capable of sexuality as all the other modes and emotions. Hank never would’ve thought he’d be the one to inspire that. 

Yet when he reaches around Connor’s lap, he finds Connor’s synthetic cock completely hard. Lost in the power fantasy, Hank orders, “Don’t come before I tell you.”

Connor’s tongue traces his lips. He must like that. He promises, “I won’t, Lieutenant. I’m here for your use only.”

“Unless I decide to share you,” Hank counters without thinking. He’s had the brief fantasy before of passing Connor around the office, watching one man after the other utterly _debauch_ his perfectionist boyfriend, but he’d never actually go through with it. Connor’s just too sweet to share. But Connor looks turned on by the thought and nods. 

“Of course, Lieutenant. I’ll do whatever you tell me.”

If that were true, they never would’ve got this far. Hank wouldn’t have realized Connor was his own person entirely. Then Connor wriggles his ass against Hank’s crotch, and Hank forgets the past in favour of the near future. He lets go of Connor only long enough to fiddle open his belt and fly.

“Lieutenant?”

Hank’s baggy pants hit the floor. He pushes his boxers down too. “What?”

“Would you like me to prepare my body for you, or would you like to take me raw?”

“Jesus Christ.”

Connor lifts one dark brow, like he’s really just some mindless sex-droid that’ll forget all this in two hours, and it makes no difference to him if Hank fucks right through his specialized channel into the blue blood and circuitry beyond. Hank would never do that. He half-replies, half-scolds, “Lube up, Connor. And stretch yourself for me.” Connor knows exactly how big he is. 

Connor asks, “Is that what you would like to call me for the night, Lieutenant?”

Hank pauses. He’d forgotten that so many androids _don’t even have names._

It irks him to even think of making Connor that faceless. He grunts, “Yeah,” and lines his dick up with Connor’s asshole. It’s already glistening, starting to leak the natural lube he can internally produce. Hank was surprised when he first learned of it, until he realized that of course Kamski would be a kinky bastard. And of course Connor would be _even more_ fuckable than he already seemed. Hank’s pretty sure he’s the most fuckable man ever made, even if he cried during his first experience and spent the next month over-analyzing every nuance of the encounter before awkwardly demanding they do it again. 

Now he’s face-down over Hank’s kitchen counter with his legs spread open and lube leaking down his thighs. Hank knows he’s _so_ damn lucky. He pushes the head of his cock against Connor’s puckered hole and almost asks if Connor’s ready. 

Except nobody asks fleshlights if they’re ready. And that’s what Connor’s playing. So Hank shoves in without warning, groaning as he goes, because Connor feels like _pure euphoria_ inside. His velvety walls suck Hank in, hot and wet and cloying, incredibly tight, but still wide enough that Hank can get a little more headway with every thrust. He pistons in without a second thought. His fingers dig into Connor’s hips, and he watches pure _emotion_ cross Connor’s gorgeous face as Hank drives deeper and deeper inside him. 

Hank can go all the way, balls-deep, get totally embedded in Connor’s amazing asshole. Then he’s pausing to breathe, just hovering there, savouring that mind-blowing feeling. Connor bites his bottom lip, even though Hanks made it clear that he loves hearing Connor come undone. Except Connor shouldn’t break over this. Cock sleeves don’t whine and whimper. Connor’s LED whirs yellow like he wants to clench down and scream, but he’s too good for that. 

Hank finds himself fondly petting Connor’s back and murmuring, “Good boy.” That’s not the game they’re supposed to be playing, but Connor shudders anyway—he _always_ likes hearing that. Hank beefs it up with a more sinister-sounding, “Good little android.”

“Your android,” Connor grits out, like that fact matters to him. 

Hank cruelly reminds him, “Just for the night.”

Connor opens his mouth, maybe to say that Hank will have to buy him after this, because he’s such a well-behaved fleshlight and he’ll be good for Hank no matter what. Hank doesn’t give him the chance. Pulling back, Hank slams inside, so much harder than he used to do, than he would with any human partner, but Connor’s reinforced silicone and _can take it_. Hank starts pounding into him with brutal force that Connor compliantly suffers through. And he looks wildly good doing it. 

Every thrust is a gift. Connor shivers but doesn’t sweat, bites back a moan that still goes straight to Hank’s cock, and whimpers, _“Lieutenant—”_ more than once. _Sex_ still overloads him, clouding all his systems. Hank secretly hopes he never gets the hang of it. There’s something so ridiculously fulfilling about watching a man like Connor shatter with lust. Hank tightly holds Connor’s cock to keep it from bruising against the counter, but he doesn’t pump it and doesn’t have to. He knows Connor can come on command. Hank’s dick always seems to be enough for him. 

Hank can’t last as long as he used to when he was younger, but he doesn’t do too badly considering how hot his partner is. He fucks Connor as hard as he can, as much as he can, until there’s just no holding back anymore and Connor’s beauty catches up with him. Then he’s crying out and slamming home, filling up Connor’s ass with jet after jet of pure human cum. Connor clenches around him as though desperate to keep it, to not let it leak out, but Hank’s still going and drags ropes of it out anyway. He goes until there’s nothing left, until he’s shuddering and panting and wondering how he even survives fucking Connor with the shape he’s in. Connor’s too hot for him. He slows to an eventual stop. Then, panting, he lets his cock pop out of Connor’s drenched ass, and he wipes himself off on Connor’s left cheek. Connor squirms in Hank’s hands but says nothing. 

Stumbling back, Hank looks over what he’s done. Connor’s ass is a raw red—an amazing detail that must’ve been hell to program. Freed, his cock hangs between his soaked legs, long and stiff and horribly neglected. Connor carefully rasps, “Sir?”

Hank grunts, “Yeah?”

“Was I satisfactory?”

Hank snorts. _Only Connor._ Then he realizes that it’s not just the usual cry for praise, but a desperate plea from a fucked-raw boytoy. Hank benevolently asks, “You wanna come, slut?”

Connor shifts again. He could never pass as a real sexbot, because he meekly answers, “Yes, please.”

Hank slaps his ass and tells him, “Go for it.”

Just like that, Connor bursts against the cabinet. Hank doesn’t even care about the mess it makes—he knows Connor will clean it up later. And it’s bizarrely satisfying to watch an android cream all over its own legs, utterly untouched. Connor even moans, “ _Lieutenant_ ,” while he does it, like there’s nothing sexier than putting on a show for his human. 

In the aftermath, they’re both just standing there. Hank wants to collapse but forces himself to stay upright, to finish. Connor doesn’t even slouch. His posture’s still exacting, even as his cock starts to flag. Hank shakily steps back to his partner. 

He drops a hand to Connor’s tenderized ass and gently rubs it, asking, “Was that too much?”

Connor’s eyes are closed. But he opens them halfway to murmur, “No. I was the one that wanted to know what it was like to be a Traci.” After a pause, he checks, “Is that accurate?”

Hank shrugs. He has no idea. He’s not the sort of person who’d ever actually rent an android. Or buy one. Which reminds him: “If you were one, I’d buy you.”

Growing a languid grin, Connor agrees, “I had a feeling you would at least rent me multiple times.” 

Hank lightly swats his ass. “Don’t be cheeky.” Connor winces at the impact, then slowly straightens—Hank steps back to give him room. He reaches back to untie the apron, but Hank stops him—if he gets any more naked, Hank will need to go again, and he can’t physically do that yet. 

Connor seems to understand and instead tilts in to kiss the side of Hank’s face and murmur, “Thank you for indulging me.”

“Any time. It was fun.” Connor lifts an eyebrow, but before he can say anything else, Hank adds, “I think I’d like to stick to my deviant detective, though.” 

Connor smiles. 

He pecks Hank’s lips and tells him, “Sit down, Hank. You can watch me finish the dishes.”

As soon as Connor turns around again, Hank remembers why that’s such a good idea. He pulls his underwear and pants back up and flops over onto one of the kitchen chairs, settling in for the rest of the show.


End file.
